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static_abyss) wrote2021-10-26 09:35 pm
static_abyss) wrote2021-10-26 09:35 pm
LJ Idol M: Ocotlan
I don't remember if my grandmother ever laughed.
My memories of her are filled with high ceilings and cerulean metal windows that creaked when we opened them in the morning. When I close my eyes and imagine what she sounded like, I hear the cacophonous song of the roosters long before sunrise, a discordant wave of sound repeated from house to house until it drowned out the whir of our flimsy fan. I hear the hard thump of the guamúchil's branches knocking against the crumbling walls of grandma's adobe kitchen and against the clay roof that leaked during the rainy season.
I know her house as though it were my own. All my summers spent there have given me enough memories of its low doors, of my grandfather's amused laughter as he ducked just in time. I know the sounds of my plastic sandals against the rocky dirt of my grandmother's yard, that tell-tale squeak as I tripped on my way to the bathroom. I can read the warning signs of rain in the air. It's a specific silence, a heavy, more pronounced one that weighs on my bones and in my heart. It feels like a call from somewhere deeper than my being and farther than the cerros of Ocotlan.
I know that town. I know that house. I know the grass that grows above my waist right before the harvest, the vibrant green that stretches for miles in my grandfather's land. When I close my eyes, I can see the corral that my grandfather built before he died, the wooden poles, thicker than my arm, held together by rusting barbed wire. I know all the cows; the angry one with her long dark horns and her beautiful roan coat; the white one who raises babies that won't stop suckling without a fight; the tan one with short horns that will fight a dog if it gets too close. I know the bull and all his children, all those tiny faces and awkward legs, those low bleats asking for their mothers to keep them safe.
I can walk the path to the river and back without getting lost. I know each and every rock that litters the ground, the way they slip underfoot when it rains, and how unyielding they are during the dry season. I know that humid grassy smell, the scent of manure and overly ripe fruit, the thick briny odor of unfiltered well water. I know the sounds of the river, that low hypnotizing buzz that calls to me asking me to trust it. I know why sailors got lost at sea.
If you ask me for a memory of that town, I can pull it out and show you all the vibrant pieces, the jagged edges, the places where I've smoothed away the worst of it. I can tell you what time the sun sets, when it rises, what time the chickens eat, when they climb their tree. If you ask me, I can tell you what time it is by the kitchen's shadow. I can tell you what it feels like to lie on the hard dirt at one in the afternoon, the way the sun beats down hard enough to sap the energy from my bones. I know who opens the church doors, who owns the store across the street, who drives the beat-up green pickup truck. I know the who's, the what's, the when's. I can tell you the why.
But no matter how hard I try, I can never remember the sound of my grandmother's laughter.
My memories of her are filled with high ceilings and cerulean metal windows that creaked when we opened them in the morning. When I close my eyes and imagine what she sounded like, I hear the cacophonous song of the roosters long before sunrise, a discordant wave of sound repeated from house to house until it drowned out the whir of our flimsy fan. I hear the hard thump of the guamúchil's branches knocking against the crumbling walls of grandma's adobe kitchen and against the clay roof that leaked during the rainy season.
I know her house as though it were my own. All my summers spent there have given me enough memories of its low doors, of my grandfather's amused laughter as he ducked just in time. I know the sounds of my plastic sandals against the rocky dirt of my grandmother's yard, that tell-tale squeak as I tripped on my way to the bathroom. I can read the warning signs of rain in the air. It's a specific silence, a heavy, more pronounced one that weighs on my bones and in my heart. It feels like a call from somewhere deeper than my being and farther than the cerros of Ocotlan.
I know that town. I know that house. I know the grass that grows above my waist right before the harvest, the vibrant green that stretches for miles in my grandfather's land. When I close my eyes, I can see the corral that my grandfather built before he died, the wooden poles, thicker than my arm, held together by rusting barbed wire. I know all the cows; the angry one with her long dark horns and her beautiful roan coat; the white one who raises babies that won't stop suckling without a fight; the tan one with short horns that will fight a dog if it gets too close. I know the bull and all his children, all those tiny faces and awkward legs, those low bleats asking for their mothers to keep them safe.
I can walk the path to the river and back without getting lost. I know each and every rock that litters the ground, the way they slip underfoot when it rains, and how unyielding they are during the dry season. I know that humid grassy smell, the scent of manure and overly ripe fruit, the thick briny odor of unfiltered well water. I know the sounds of the river, that low hypnotizing buzz that calls to me asking me to trust it. I know why sailors got lost at sea.
If you ask me for a memory of that town, I can pull it out and show you all the vibrant pieces, the jagged edges, the places where I've smoothed away the worst of it. I can tell you what time the sun sets, when it rises, what time the chickens eat, when they climb their tree. If you ask me, I can tell you what time it is by the kitchen's shadow. I can tell you what it feels like to lie on the hard dirt at one in the afternoon, the way the sun beats down hard enough to sap the energy from my bones. I know who opens the church doors, who owns the store across the street, who drives the beat-up green pickup truck. I know the who's, the what's, the when's. I can tell you the why.
But no matter how hard I try, I can never remember the sound of my grandmother's laughter.
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Interestingly, I also can't remember the sound of my grandmother's laughter. Is it because she never laughed, or is it because my memories of her are so wrapped up in my memories of her house? When I think about her, everything is very sensory - the feel of her shag carpeting underneath my toes, the always slightly sticky paint on the cinder block fence surrounding her back porch, the smell of bacon and eggs drifting into the bedroom in the morning and stirring me awake, the echo of her clock that rang through the house with its chime every half hour. Sure, I remember her, but maybe as a child I was so wrapped up in the things around me that I didn't form memories of her as a person in her own right, rather than just my grandmother. I wonder if the same is true for you, and for many others.
Thank you for this; it was beautiful. :)
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I grew up with my grandma and she passed away a year ago, so you'd think that I could remember her clearly. But I was looking at the prompt and thinking of my grandmother and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember what she sounded like when she laughed. I have very vivid images of her smile and her pictures around my room are of her smiling. But there's nothing with her laughing. Not one video.
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- Erulisse (one L
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I know the sounds of the river, that low hypnotizing buzz that calls to me asking me to trust it. I know why sailors got lost at sea.
The beauty of this, the truth in it. *happy sigh*
I really liked that you and guns and oxy took this prompt as an opportunity for vivid recollection, and the wistfulness here is glorious.
As a standalone piece, this would be wonderful for any occasion, and for publication.